In the Morning
by FlirtyAmy
Summary: John's nightmares leave him screaming all night long, Sherlock helps him deal with them. Neither realize how much this meant to John until it's too late. Rated M because I'm awful to my boys and just all around sadness (the boys are 100% platonic in this one). Better warnings inside.


AN: I know I have sooo many unfinished fics to see to, but...but...but... There were bunnies and they were just so darn fluffy and... Sorrynotsorry. This popped into my head while I was procrastinating packing and I just had to. Fair warning, it ends sad.

Rating: M

Characters: John and Sherlock

Description: John still has dreams of what happened in the war some nights, he'll scream and thrash about in his sleep and won't even wake himself up, he'll just go and go until his alarm goes off and he wakes up crying. Sherlock hears him one night and comes to investigate.

Warnings: comfort, angst, graphic descriptions of gore and death, nightmares, platonic M/M cuddling, sad ending, potential triggers about suicide.

Since before John had left the war-zone he'd been having nightmares about what he saw there. He dreamt of the young men, barely of age being hauled in, coated in their own blood and in the blood of their friends. Every night he saw explosions and wounded children shrieking at him from behind his eyelids. The longer he was there the worse it got, the more he saw each day and the more the dreams appeared at night. At first it was just young men screaming, looking for his help when there was nothing he could do. Then John began seeing the details. He saw each gash, already infected from the unsanitary conditions, he saw men missing half of their limbs, or even half of their face. He saw scars and blood and holes where human flesh should have belonged. But by far the worst of his war nightmares came after he himself was shot. Now each soldier he saw lying on a gurney crying out for salvation from the torture of their pain had his face. He saw himself as the helpless men begging for death, that it might be a slight respite from the torment. He refused to stay in hospital for very long, he couldn't take the pitying looks. So, he took his pension and found a flat, well within his means and close enough to a market place that he could get there and back on foot, even with his psychosomatically injured leg. That was until they kicked him out for waking up the neighbors each night with his screaming. He was there less than a week. Eventually he was forced out and had to take up residence in a hole in the wall flat where nobody came around asking questions about screams coming from his room.

That was when he ran into his friend from Uni in the park, when he was introduced to a tall man with devastatingly observant eyes. Sherlock Holmes. Everything about Sherlock was cumbersome, over the top, so desperately full of self that it was fairly easy to see it was a put on. But apparently nobody else got that. Sherlock pranced around with a 'look at me, I'm doing something spectacular' way about him, that at first said 'I'm so wonderful I don't need confirmation' but when you looked again, if you looked again, you could see him actually grasping for confirmation that he was everything he wanted himself to be, that he wasn't 'the freak' as Donovan called him. Well fuck Donovan. And Anderson while you're at it, because John watched, John not only looked at Sherlock but _saw_ Sherlock. He saw the coat with it's collar turned up which he intended to be intimidating and cool, but was a subconscious push at protecting himself from others. He watched Sherlocks practiced grace, something that had been ingrained in him his whole life, something he couldn't let go of, not until he thought he was safe, until he was alone, when he would flop around, letting his long limbs fall where they may. John saw Sherlock pointing out the flaws of those around him, keeping the attention turned resolutely away from his own. It was in Sherlocks name, they way he wouldn't allow nicknames, always to be called by Sherlock, nothing less. And it was in the way Sherlock couldn't stand to be doing nothing. That was one of the places it appeared most, because Sherlock claimed to need a puzzle, but more than that, he needed something to solve. Something he could do that would impress, that would give him reason to be him, that would explain all his little quirks and the oddity that was Sherlock Holmes, because unless he was doing what he did best, he wasn't worth anything. Not to his eyes at least.

So John learned to compliment Sherlock, even when he wasn't doing anything as mind-blowing as solving a triple murder case in two minutes flat. He learned to joke and make light, to be Sherlocks friend rather than just his flatmate or his partner. John couldn't deduce a complex murder case, but he saw right through Sherlock, and that was all that he needed to see.

The first few nights after John moved into the flat he was able to escape the dreams, so exhausted was he from running around and learning all about Sherlock that by the time he made it into bed at night he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and he slept all night through with no dreams he could remember. After about four or five of these nights however, his luck ran out. He woke up the next morning panting as if he'd just been running, tears streaming down his face, throat raw from screaming. _Shit_ he thought, knowing he'd have to explain to Sherlock, or sit there as Sherlock deduced him, figured out the dreams, tore him down in the place he didn't feel he could go any further, but surely Sherlock of all people could find a way.

John walked down the stairs, eyes meeting a pair of icy blue ones as he entered. Sherlock looked at him, up and down, read everything written all over his face, gave a nod and turned back to the window he'd been looking out before John had entered. _Well at least he kept his deductions to himself. I know all about how fucked up I am, don't need to hear it from him too._

That day they caught a big case that had them running about all day, John exhausted beyond belief. John slept without dreaming that night, and woke up early the next morning to Sherlock insisting it was well past the time they'd agreed to get going this morning- even though that conversation never happened, at least not with John involved. They were us and out again by 9:30 am and had the case solved by noon. The satisfaction Sherlock got from solving the case, however was marred by the fact that he had twisted his wrist badly enough to keep him out of commission for a day or two at least. Sherlock, apparently did not take well to pain or helplessness and was an absolute prat for the rest of the day as John made a fuss about him and went to great pains to make him comfortable. That night John dreamt again, this time the patients had taken on a variety of faces, those of people they'd saved, and of the ones they'd lost, the victims and the killers, they took on the faces of himself and Sherlock. As always he knew it was a dream, but in all the confusion and the fear, logic was lost. That is, until someone came and took his hand. In the confusion he was anchored, the anonymous person pulled Johns body to theirs, held him in comfort until John could breath again. Once John had calmed, he could think, he could help. Together John and the figure moved about, saving the bloodied and dying soldiers, and when everyone was taken care of, when they were all at peace, resting and healing, John awoke.

The first thing he registered was that he was not alone in his bed. The second was that he was the little spoon in the current situation. He took a second to take stock of his current situation before he opened his eyes or moved, planning what was to be done before he gave himself away. He noticed he was curled up into a ball of sorts, all tucked in to protect himself. Then he decided that it was a man that was wrapped around him, his body acting as a shield against whatever would come near John. A larger man, in height, not broadness. He smelled of peppermint and lavender,an odd but comforting combination, but also of something without a name, but it was familiar, a smell that was constant around the flat, the body he was curled against was that of Sherlock Holmes. Now came the question of why? The only way John could figure that out would be to ask, so he began to shift, hoping to wake Sherlock gently. When the larger man awoke he realized their position and shifted back slightly so John could unfurl from his position and turn to face his flatmate.

"Morning" Sherlock grumbled, his voice rough from sleep

"Is that all you've got to say? I just woke up to you spooning me and all you've got to say is _morning!?_"

"Well, John, it is the morning, and I have a perfectly logical explanation for my presence so I did not feel the need to explain myself immediately, figuring you would like to ask for yourself."

"Fine, whatever, why are you in my bed?"

"Well, I was in my own room last night reading and I heard you screaming in your sleep again, so I decided to come wake you up to see if I could help you get a peaceful night's sleep. However when I arrived you were furled so tightly and so deeply asleep that now amount of shaking you or calling your name woke you." John began to blush as he realized what Sherlock said was most likely true. "I worked my hand into the ball you'd made of yourself to find your wrist to take your pulse and assure you did not need medical attention, and you grasped hold of my hand in your sleep and would not relinquish it. Eventually you calmed and released me enough so that I could move away, and I figured my job was done, so I began to withdraw, only to have you begin thrashing about. I deduced that you needed human contact in your dream state in order to sleep soundly, so I settled into the bed next to you and must have fallen asleep. We must have taken that position naturally in our subconscious state."

"Oh... Well then, thank you. It was the best nights rest I've had in a very very long time." John smiled awkwardly, not sure what this meant for their relationship in the future.

"Of course, I was happy to help. It needn't be awkward now between us, You're straight and I'm Asexual, this was simply a means to an end. Nothing more." Sherlock stated coolly.

"Agreed. Thank you Sherlock." John said with relief as Sherlock stood from the bed and made his way out the door.

From that night on, every time John had nightmares Sherlock would come join him in his bed, being a comfort until he woke up, when they would disentangle from each other and walk away to deal with whatever was on their plate that day. Through various girlfriends John almost always spent the nights at home, just in case he needed Sherlock, but if he was with this girl or the next he would simply use them for the comfort he required, though it wasn't ever the same. Only Sherlock smelt of comfort and of home. And Sherlocks comfort came with no strings or awkward goodbyes.

The night after The Fall John laid in a bed at a motel all alone. Tonight he needed Sherlocks comfort more than he ever had before, but he couldn't have it, and that was the reason he needed it most. He tossed and turned, screamed at the top of his lungs, dreamt of falling, of flying towards the ground. He dreamt of looking control. He dreamt of eyes, already so icy, devoid of the spark that was Sherlock. Of skin, no longer alabaster, covered in black and blue and whiter than white where it wasn't bruised. and when he awoke there were tears on his cheeks as there hadn't been in 18 months. They were there every morning for the next three years. Every morning until one night when he dreamt that he was caught. He woke up, heart racing, knowing Sherlock had been there, had to be there, because Sherlock had saved him.

But Sherlock was not there, had never been there. That was the morning when John decided fair was fair. If Sherlock got to fall and Leave John alone, John got to fall and make Sherlock come back and catch him.

The next morning there were no tears on Johns cheeks when he woke up. Oh yes, there were tears, but not Johns. Sherlock stood in their flat, finally back from dismantling the web, back for John, to be there for him again, to get back to their lives. Sherlock had walked in the door, throwing it open with a flourish and immediately he knew something was wrong. The flat smelt like it was deserted, no life to keep it thrumming with energy, barely a scrap of food in the refrigerator and judging by the tread marks on the carpet John's limp was back and nobody had been up here in ages other than John and Mrs. Hudson. he looked around to see if anything else had changed and glanced at his chair, only to see a note waiting for him. But how? How could John know he'd be back? He read the letter slowly. Then again. He dropped it on the ground and ran. Sherlock ran and ran until he came to Barts, where he saw nothing but an empty sidewalk, until he got closer. As he approached he saw two overlapping stains on the concrete, one old and faded, the other brand new, no later than yesterday. Just one day late. Three years and he missed by one day. Sherlock collapsed there on the ground and began to scream, to cry and shake. The only things running through his mind were grief and Johns letter to him, from just one day ago...

_Sherlock,_

_When I was in the service I dreamt each night of death and gore and pain. When I met you, when you began to help me, I dreamt of being able to take it on, the whole world. I could face everything with you by my side. For three years I have had nightmare after nightmare, waiting for you to come back, to come hold me until I was ready to do what I needed to do. For three years I have woken up alone and afraid after dreaming again and again of you falling, of me trying to save you and never being able to. but last night, last night __**I **__was the one who fell. And last night you were there waiting for me on the ground, you caught me. You saved me. You always save me. So today I'm going to Barts, I'm going to jump where you jumped. Fall where you fell. I can only hope you'll be you, that you'll show up at exactly the right time, at just the last second and save me the way you always do._

_Please hurry, I'm beginning to think it was just a dream._

_I'll see you at the bottom, one way or another._

_Love always,_

_John Watson_

AN: OHMYGOODNESSI'MSOSORRY I just started writing and I couldn't stop and... bwahhhhh I was crying by the time I was done writing this. I didn't edit this very well at all, so forgive any typos or whatever. Feedback would make me a very happy camper, even thought I'm an awful person. 3


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